Hideaway
by pvoberstein
Summary: Winter Schnee seeks shelter from the storms, both literal and otherwise. A short story of the first meeting of the General and the woman who will become his top Specialist. Set prior to the events of Volume 1.


It was a dark and stormy night.

Or so Ironwood assumed. It had just been starting to rain a couple of hours ago, when he'd ventured out to pick up a package the delivery robot had carelessly deposited in the middle of his lawn. It had already been shaping up to be a nasty night - high winds, heavy rain, and just a few degrees too warm to turn into proper snow. This kind of weather played havoc with his cybernetics, too; there was something about that sweet spot of temperature and humidity that made his whole body seem to ache.

Which was why, at a little past one in the morning, General James Ironwood was seated at his kitchen table, in sweatpants and a faded tee, nursing a whiskey on the rocks as he skimmed a student's paper. It was actually a doctoral dissertation, and he was standing-in as a reviewer as a personal favor to a colleague, an act of charity he was regretting more with each passing page. Ironwood had headmastered an academy long enough to known when a student was bullshitting him, and this paper reeked of refuse. Sloppy methodologies, no engagement with archival sources, and if the student had read _half_ of the articles he was citing then James swore he'd-

There was a knock at his door.

At least, there might have been. Ironwood turned his head, his whole body still for several seconds, wondering if he'd actually heard a noise or if the house was simply settling in the storm. There was a long pause, during which he swirled his whiskey, the rocks of which had long since melted. He was about to return to the paper, and its infuriatingly sophomoric uses of footnotes, when-

_Knock. Knock._

Alright, Ironwood _hadn't_ hallucinated it. His chair scraping against the floor, he drained the remnants of his glass and made his way to the front door. He was halfway there before a niggling voice began whispering worries in his head, pulling on the strings of paranoia. He'd survived more than one assassination attempt, including one in this very house, and this was as good as any night for another. Though that last assailant hadn't been courteous enough to knock first. His hand rested on the handle, depressing it marginally. He debated for a moment returning to his kitchen, where his Scroll lay charging, which he could have used to peer through the electronic cameras that dotted his property like weeds. But then a combination of fatigue and spirits inclined him to push caution to the wind, and he swung the door wide open.

It was a dark and stormy night.

And in the middle of that storm, that darkness, stood Miss Winter Schnee.

She was a foot or two away from his door, as if she'd been halfway to leaving, her stance seemingly mid-pivot. She was wearing only a light coat, decidedly not waterproofed, and her arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her hair was down, practically plastered to her head like a white silk mop, rivulets of rainwater running down her face like so many tears.

She wasn't supposed to know where this was – indeed, very few people _were_. This modest little bungalow - with its high fences and hedges, tucked near the end of a cul-de-sac - was his own private retreat, his personal sanctuary. His residence was, _officially_, a century-old manor on the grounds of Atlas Academy, as grandiose and grandiloquent as befit the station, into which he was expected to invite and entertain and provide tours for visiting dignitaries. He could, ironically, never actually feel _at ho__me_ there, not with the strangers drifting in and out, with the curtains that were changed by a committee. And so, on a fellow Headmaster's advice, he'd purchased this small plot of land, told next to no one of it, moved in all the personal affects he didn't want the custodial staff of the academy sifting through. Whenever he'd needed a breath, a break, some semblance of privacy, it had been there waiting for him. He'd seen it as the perfect hideaway.

And so, evidently, had one Winter Schnee.

It was she who spoke first. "General Ironwood," Winter began, managing to straighten up somewhat from the slouch he'd found her in. Her words were clear, but her voice was wavering, lips blued from the cold. She took a small step towards him. "I… hope I didn't wake you."

Ironwood blinked. "_No_. No, I, um…" he made a vague gesture to his house, and all the lights on inside of it. "I couldn't sleep." There was another pause, the storm and the sleet filling the air between them. He was too surprised to even wonder how Winter had found his little hideaway.

_Winter Schnee_. They'd crossed paths on a dozen-odd occasions, exclusively in the accompaniment of her father. He'd known about her before that, of course, from the little snippets of Jacques' family life his PR men let seep into the media. Stories about her perfect grades, her early Aura aptitude, highlights of her ballet performances at the SDC Center for the Performing Arts. An airbrushed picture of filial piety, and one he was too clever by a half to fall for.

"Miss Schnee…" he shook his head, too dumbstruck to do anything more. "_What happened_?"

Of course, he already knew. It was so obvious that he couldn't _not_. Her application to Atlas Academy had been immediately flagged by the admissions committee. She had the highest possible scores on everything they had an aptitude test for, from duels to Dust. Letters of recommendation from half the Council. Allusions to establishing a Schnee Scholarship Fund for the children of SDC miners. All the sorts of things Jacques himself would have approved.

And, at the very last minute, mere hours before the deadline, a requested placement in a _very_ specialized stream of study. The one that was a fast track to places _very_ far away from their fabled city in the sky.

You didn't have to spend much time reading the tabloids or listening to faculty lounge gossip to figure out why the proposals for the Schnee Scholarship Fund had vanished. Winter had defied her father, a man who tolerated no dissent. Least of all from within his family, his _house_.

Which had led her, inexorable, _here_. Standing on his doorstep, seeking refuge from the storm.

Winter offered him a weak smile. "It seems my father disagreed with my decision to ch-change programs," she said, teeth chattering against her considerable will. "W-wants a daughter _trained_ as a Huntress, not to actually… _b-be_ one."

Because there were few things in more Remnant more prestigious than a Huntress, particularly from _his_ Academy. Jacques no doubt liked the idea of having a daughter who could _look_ the part, giving the SDC that veneer of noble service that no amount of lien alone could do. No doubt that he could never have imagined that the spartan lifestyle of a _real_ Huntress could have ever appealed to his daughter in the slightest, to a woman who would have had _everything_.

Winter sniffled, loud enough to be heard over the rain. Her mouth was half-open, her chest rising with every breath. Eyes wide, fingers digging into her sleeves. Trying to stop a tremble that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Can I come in?"

The daughter of Jacques Schnee, one of the most powerful men in Remnant, was on his doorstep, asking for asylum. Ironwood had no doubts about how furious Jacques would be to hear that he had provided comfort to this dissident of his name.

He held the door open. "Please."

Winter didn't move, not for a full moment. Her eyes drifted shut, her head bowed, her mouth closed as she let out a breath that had been in her lungs too long. Then she met Ironwood's eyes with an expression he had never seen on her before, and crept across the threshold.

The door closed with a _thunk_ behind her, silencing the storm. Soon all Ironwood could hear was a _dripping_, as the residual rain trickled off of Winter and formed a puddle at her feet. She slipped out of her shoes, her feet wrinkled from wetness, and carefully peeled off her coat, wincing at the shallow pool she was making.

"Miss Schnee, did you… did you _walk_ here?" Even if Atlas wasn't the biggest city in Remnant, the distance from Schnee Manor to his own abode was not inconsiderable.

Winter grimaced. "I'm afraid my card seems to have been cancelled." She made a small shrug. "_All_ of them."

"And you didn't have any friends closer to you who you could…" Ironwood let that sentence trail off, as Winter looked at him with an expression that made it clear it was a _dumb question_.

"If my father found out I was staying with any of my acquaintances, against his wishes, he'd…" She visibly struggled for the diplomatic phrasing. "He has money, and power, and connections."

"And the willingness to abuse all of them." Ironwood caught the small flinch on Winter's face. She was far too smart not to know exactly what kind of a man her father was, even if she'd spent a lifetime trying to suppress and sequester that realization.

He patted her shoulder, the thin top she was wearing still soaked with water. "I've crossed paths with your father before, Miss Schnee. It'll hardly be the first time he's mad at me." He offered her a small smile, and his hand fell away. "This place actually has a fireplace, let me see if I can get it going."

Winter offered another smile, or perhaps a grimace. "Thank you, sir."

Ironwood set about starting a fire. His was an old-fashioned fireplace, meant to be made with kindling and logs, not a synthetic simulacrum simulated with SDC Fire Dust. It was more _authentic_, or so the realtor had raved, though Ironwood did derive some primal satisfaction from actually building a fire himself, like he was an eight-year old camper once again.

"Do you remember the last time you were over at our manor for dinner, sir?" Winter asked, shuffling a few steps closer to Ironwood. He'd balled up a few paper magazines, and was in the process of ringing them with kindling. "It was two days before applications to Atlas Academy had to be finalized."

Ironwood smiled at Winter's telling way of dating things. "Yes, I do. As I recall your father and I got into a rather heated argument."

"About whether it was a waste for someone from Atlas' upper-class to serve the Kingdom as a Huntsmen." Winter had been entirely mute throughout the argument, silent but for the scrape of cutlery against silverware, though there'd been no hiding the intensity of her interest. "Or whether that's a job that should be left to the… to the-"

"-to the _disposal people_," Ironwood finished for her. He struck a match, and lit a flame. "Yes, I remember."

They were quiet for several seconds, as Ironwood finished lighting the fire, watching it grow. Once he was satisfied that it was enkindling properly, he turned back to face Winter, an expectant look on his face. But she shook her head gently.

"I just remembered that conversation. You argued your point very effectively."

Ironwood snorted. "I wish I remembered what I said," he replied, in mock deprecation. He stood up, the servos of his limbs _whirring_ slightly beneath his weight. "I'll go get you something to change into. Could you keep an eye on the fire?"

It was an entirely unnecessary request, but Winter simply nodded, and shuffled forward until she was practically huddled next to it, bathing in its incandescent glow.

She was so hypnotized by the flame that she didn't hear Ironwood return, not until he set down a folded pile of clothes beside her.

"You'll have to excuse the poor fit," he apologized, as Winter began sifting through the garments. "I'm afraid we're… rather different sizes."

Wool socks, sweatpants, a gym shirt, and a hoodie. Winter unfolded the last, tilting her head slightly as she peered at the insignia on the front.

"Oh, that." Ironwood coughed. "They made a bunch of these as swag giveaways after we finally got the program off the ground. They stuck me with all the leftover inventory, of course." He coughed again. "It's probably the only thing in your size I have in here."

It was a simple design. The axe and shield of Atlas' crest, in white, atop black cloth. And, ringing the crest:

ATLAS SPECIAL OPERATIVES UNIT

Winter nodded, and refolded the hooded sweater. "Thank you, sir," she said, excusing herself for the bathroom.

"Just give me a minute to change into this."

[A/N: Feel free to connect with me on Tumblr, where I use the same username, or on AO3, where I have over 100 short stories under the name Liara_90. Thank you for your readership]


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